


The names we share

by Labarch



Series: Peaks and Pitfalls [3]
Category: Lupin III
Genre: Detective Noir, Gen, Interrogation, M/M, Road Trips, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-12 04:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labarch/pseuds/Labarch
Summary: In the aftermath of a murder attempt within the Lupin the Second syndicate, Albert hunts for the traitor in his own ranks, and Lupin’s loyalties are put to the test. Prequel fic, follows This Round Goes to You.





	The names we share

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I am still digging.

Romain Sorrel, antiquarian and poorly-rehabilitated gambler, was having an all-around unpleasant day.

He had woken up that morning with a splitting headache, the after-effect of a bottle of spirit emptied too fervently the night before. To add insult to injury, he had had nothing on hand except a limited release whiskey won at an auction over a year ago: he had saved it aside to toast to riches when his fortune turned. Instead, he had woken up to the same growing anxieties and dwindling bank account as the day before.

His migraine had left him bedridden well past midday, and he hadn’t been able to open shop. It wasn’t a luxury he could much afford these days. He attempted to go for a walk in the afternoon to clear his head, but that also backfired when a stranger walked up behind him and clubbed him the moment he left his house.

Now, he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. His captors had taken his watch, and the room he was locked in had no window through which he could see the angle of the sun. He thought he might be in an old, repurposed wine cellar, from the slight chill in the air, the stone bricks and the vaulted ceiling. There were even empty arrays of shelves along the walls where bottles would have been stored. The room had no other visible furniture, save for the wooden chair he was tied to – ropes wound tightly around his chest, his hands bound to the armrests – and save for a second, empty chair facing him.

His eyes kept darting between that second chair and the closed door, as though assessing two equally unwelcome guests. He hadn’t been gagged, but he didn’t cry out: his fear of whose attention he might attract was greater than his hope for rescue. Only strangled huffs of breath escaped him as he fumbled and twisted his hands to try and loosen the ropes.

He froze as he heard voices in the distance, moving towards his cell. When they came nearer, he found they belonged to two young men or teenagers, caught in some argument. With them came another, sharper sound: rhythmic impacts, like that made by a walking stick. The impacts stopped when they reached the door, and the voices fell to a whisper, the quarrel only reaching Sorrel as a back and forth of aggravated hisses.

Someone stomped their foot impatiently. There was a long string of curses. Then, the doorknob turned with a rusted creaking. Sorrel tensed, yet at first the two newcomers seemed too absorbed in their own quarrel to even glance his way: he was able to assess them quickly without being conspicuous.

The first man walked with a distinct limp, and leaned heavily on a sharp-ended black cane. His mouth was concealed by the high collar of his coat, his hair by a felt hat, and the rest of his face by wide, opaque shades. Their sharp frame gave an arrogant air to his otherwise impassive face.

The man that followed was incongruously casual in comparison. He wore jeans and a sports jacket, his youthful face was bare and open, his black hair cropped short. He was scowling and glaring daggers at his companion. As soon as he entered the room he spun around and leant against the wall right by the door, crossing his arms over his chest with an angry huff.

“This is stupid,” he declared, in a French accent that bore the faintest trace of Italian.

The other shrugged.

“You said you wanted to help with the aftermath,” he replied in a purer Parisian drawl. “Don’t start whining when that means doing some actual work.”

The man in sports clothes slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, glaring up at the other in rebellion.

“I never signed up to do something this boring. You need doors watched? Get yourself a bodyguard.”

“Come on, what’s the harm?” the other said. There was the barest hint of a smirk in his voice. “This shouldn’t take me long. I’ll make it up to you later.”

The young man on the floor rolled his eyes, but left it at that. The other made his way laboriously to the chair opposite Sorrel. Each impact of his cane raised a chilled, metallic echo from the vaulted room. He sat down with visible relief and stretched his bad leg casually in front of him. At long last, he raised his eyes to Sorrel, unhurried, like a blind man: the shades hid where exactly he was looking.

Silence stretched between them. Beads of sweat were breaking on the surface of Sorrel’s face.

“You are awfully quiet,” the man in black said, the quizzical rising of his brow wrinkling his forehead. “I hope my friends haven’t treated you too harshly when they brought you in. Your memory is precious to me right now, I’d hate to see it damaged. I presume you know what I want from you?”

The monotonous voice reached Sorrel as if through a fog. Now that the time of confrontation had come, plans, backup plans and excuses scurried away from him like mice fleeing the light. His headache from this morning was creeping back in. He stammered.

“I… No, Monsieur Vermont, Sir, I can’t understand…”

“Oh no, _I’m _the one who is confused,” the man cut in, leaning into his space. “Vermont? Interesting. The two of us never met face to face. And besides, the Horace Vermont you have taken orders from on the phone is well into his fifties. Surely you don’t think me that old?”

He let out a derisive huff at the expression on his interlocutor’s face. And, before Sorrel could rally and explain himself:

“Of course, it is an open secret that the leader of the Lupin syndicate has a bit of a talent for voice acting. Hence, your Vermont could be much younger than he seems. Fair enough. And yet – it’s also an open secret that we have been swamped by enemies as of late. I could just as easily be one of them. So I can’t help but wonder: why would a loyal member of the syndicate assume that the man who abducted him is none other than his own boss?”

He struck the cane against the floor sharply for emphasis, making Sorrel jump –his wits scrambling away from him again like frightened rodents. He leant forward, the edge of a crooked smile appearing above the collar of his coat; his shades were so opaque Sorrel could see himself reflected in them:

“So let us leave the good Horace Vermont aside with all my other aliases, and get to the point. You know my real name. You knew the details of my latest operations, and – is it all coming back to you now, Sorrel? – you sold that intel to some rival band and plotted to have me killed.”

The last sentence made Sorrel shudder: in an instant all the mocking pleasantness in his boss’ voice had bled away to cold steel. He went on in a clipped, commanding tone.

“I want to know who bought you. I want to know everything you told them. And I want to know what their next move will be. Speak.”

_Keep it together_, Sorrel silently begged his pounding headache and his own sweating hands. If this were a poker game he would be dead in the water, his face was twitching and his breathing was coming out too short and ragged. _Stick to the plan._

He raised his eyes shakily to the concealed face of the young man –not that he couldn’t fill in the blanks from leaked photos and sparse descriptions gleaned over the years.

Albert d’Andrésy. Nearly a boy still at barely twenty years of age, thin but athletic, an angular face and deeply sunken, inexpressive eyes. A brilliant student in political science by day, and by night, the mastermind behind an art smuggling and forgery ring, last known living heir to the fabled thief Arsène Lupin.

His patience was, also, reputedly short. Sorrel shook his head as firmly as he could.

“Sir – I wouldn’t betray you. I can explain. Our enemies, I knew they were trying to use me as a scapegoat. I thought you might suspect me, when your men took me in I– I panicked. But I swear I don’t know your name, or anything else I wasn’t entrusted with. The only sense I can make of this is – Anne-Lise, she was higher up in the line of command, she knew everything I did. And she’s fled abroad, hasn’t she? So she must be the one, the mole.”

D’Andrésy tilted his head and turned the pommel of the cane in his hands as he listened.

“Anne-Lise? She killed her husband in self-defence five years ago, if I recall. We tampered with the crime scene to make the death appear accidental and save her the scandal. She has been of excellent service since, and as far as we know, she is abroad visiting family, hardly a fugitive.”

He threw him a cursory glance.

“So, you’re pinning the blame on her? It figures that on top of being a traitor, you would be the type to throw young widows under the bus to save your skin. Aren’t we chivalrous.”

A loud scoff interrupted the tail-end of his sentence. The strange young man, by the door, was rolling his eyes in exasperation. D’Andrésy glanced his way and shrugged, focusing smoothly back on Sorrel.

“Don’t mind him, he is new here, he can’t help sticking his nose into things. But I haven’t introduced the two of you. He goes by Lupin –presumptuous, redundant, and confusing, I know. Lupin – meet Romain Sorrel. He is an esteemed informant who has been in the service of the Lupin syndicate longer than I can be bothered to remember right now. Not that it has done much for your loyalty, now has it, Sorrel?”

Sorrel shook his head again in protest, harder than before. He was speaking again, halting through professions of innocence as he desperately tried to remember all the excuses he had thought up in the dark, dusty clutter of his room, until his anxiety grew so strong he had to dull it with alcohol. D’Andrésy didn’t help matters: though he remained stone-still, he had started to tap one finger against the pommel of the cane. The sound was dull, slow and deliberate, like spiteful raindrops.

Still, Sorrel soldiered on: they needed to focus their efforts on finding Anne-Lise, she was the one who had fled the country. _Tap. _If they only checked, he would swear the family member she claimed to be visiting didn’t exist. Had anyone checked? _Tap. Tap_. She was likely in the hands of their enemies by now, and who knew how much she had told them already, and how they would use that information next. Sorrel had been working for the Lupin syndicate far longer than she had, he could be depended upon. _Tap._ They had to be a united front against those moles. They couldn’t afford to tear each other apart.

Even as Sorrel spoke, his eyes sometimes darted about, though what he sought was unclear even to him. Details to ground himself, small hints or opportunities, weak points in the trap. During the thick of his gambling years, his sweating and fidgeting had given him an unexpected edge. It masked how watchful he could be. Sometimes, not always, it had given him the means to turn the tables.

_Tap._

He found himself glancing over to the young man slouched against the wall – Lupin? What an odd codename for a new recruit, and what an odd laidback attitude for an underling at the bottom of the totem pole. He had crossed his legs at the ankle and his arms behind his head. His eyes were closed; an annoyed wrinkle furrowed his brow. He was very pointedly ignoring his duty as a guard.

Sorrel turned back to his boss – just in time to catch a black flurry of movement.

D’Andrésy rose and swung the cane. Sorrel screamed, throwing himself against the back of the chair. The sharp end of the cane shone and crashed onto the armrest where Sorrel’s hand was splayed. There was a horrible crushing sound.

It took several seconds for his vision to stop swimming so he could look down.

His hand was intact. The tip of the cane barely touched the clenched phalanxes of his fingers, the sharp end glinting like the fang of a snake.

The naked lightbulb above their heads swung back and forth from its near-collision with the cane, throwing shifting shadows across their faces, distorting their features. Above him, d’Andrésy was half-upright, supporting himself against the armrest with a white-knuckled grip. The high collar and felt hat had gone askew, baring the tense, wild lines on his face.

Sorrel cowered further into his seat, biting back a whimper.

“Did I startle you?” D’Andrésy asked – a low, snarling voice. “My bad. I didn’t think you would mind a bit of physical violence. After all, I have you to thank for this.” He drew back his cane, spinning it with surprising dexterity between his fingers before he brought it down to tap lightly just above his maimed ankle_._ “I’d say a broken finger or two is fair payback. Wouldn’t you? So how about you stop wasting my time and tell me what I want?”

Sorrel’s heart was trapped in his throat, beating too hard for him to find his voice to beg. Startled – he wasn’t the only one to be startled in this room, he managed to notice. The lad on the floor – his arms had uncrossed from behind his head at d’Andrésy’s outburst, and he was sitting bolt-straight, surveying the scene before him with sudden alertness.

Not that having a witness would discourage d’Andrésy from lashing out. There had been a time when the Lupin name was associated with an aversion to blood and violence. But that principle had faded over the decades, if it had ever truly held. Sorrel would know. This wasn’t the first d’Andrésy he had had to work with.

He gulped thickly.

“I’ll tell you everything I know, sir”, he pleaded. “I swear. I have the syndicate’s survival at heart as much as you do. And if we go after Anne-Lise right now, then, then we can still…”

The young man’s temper snapped.

“That excuse again? Just how stupid do you think I am?” He all but roared, rising the cane once more.

Sorrel shut his eyes tightly, fingers clenching in panic. Yet the blow never came. Harsh breaths filled the room. When Sorrel dared to slit one eye open, he saw that the hand holding the cane was being held back – the new recruit had moved up to them as silent as a shadow and seized d’Andrésy by the wrist.

“Hey man. How about you calm the hell down?” 

The boldness and lack of decorum fell in the tense atmosphere like a stone in a lake. D’Andrésy balked at the rebuttal, staring at the hand trapping his wrist in disbelief. For a second Sorrel was convinced he would pull out a gun and shoot the offender right where he stood. Perhaps the only thing that saved this odd Lupin fellow, in that instant, was that d’Andrésy’s free hand was too busy gripping the armrest to get his weapon.

“First guarding a door is too much for you,” he hissed instead, low and dangerous, “and now you want to meddle?”

The other man shrugged, blissfully oblivious to the tension in the room. He pulled d’Andrésy’s wrist to bring the cane back down between them.

“You ain’t the boss of me, so save that attitude for your goons,” he said. “And take a deep breath for pity’s sake or I’m out. You said this would be clean.”

The man in black scoffed.

“Please, nothing has even happened yet. Are you getting squeamish already?”

“Try fed up. If I have to waste my time in here, I would at least like to nap. I can’t do that if you keep frothing at the mouth and hitting things.”

They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time, but the standstill had to stop when d’Andrésy’s injured leg started trembling under him. He shook his hand free and let himself drop back into the chair. All of his nervous energy seemed to deflate: he let out a shuddering sigh, running a shaky hand over his forehead and knocking his hat further askance. Strands of ashen-blond hair fell free and over his temples, damp with sweat.

The other man crossed his arms over his chest above him, and squared his shoulders in defiance.

“I…” d’Andrésy started. He waved a hand in Lupin’s general direction, as though he hoped to somehow dissipate him like smoke, so the seditious presence would be gone from his sight. “I need coffee. Can you go get me some?”

This time it was Lupin’s turn to balk.

“Hah! No. Hell no. I’ll run errands for you when I’m dead. Go get your own damn coffee.”

D’Andrésy peered up at him from under his hand, consternation etched across the drawn lines of his forehead. He gestured at his bad ankle, a little helplessly. That didn’t seem to impress the other man in the least. 

“You heard me. Go fix your own drink, I am not your maid. Anyway, what will you do if this guy breaks free and makes a run for it while I’m gone, huh? Chase after on your busted leg? Clearly you’re the one who’s got to go. I have this important guarding job to do, remember?”

He pushed his luck far enough to smirk at his own logic. D’Andrésy was radiating hostility by now, and for a few tense seconds, it looked like the argument would degenerate into something truly ugly. But d’Andrésy’s breathing had gone laborious. There were small tremors running through his hands. It was clear at this stage that he needed painkillers as much as a drink, and Lupin stood immovable before him like a tower of mulishness. The young mob leader glanced in Sorrel’s direction, full of resentment, daring him to react to the mutiny. At long last he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” he told Lupin beween clenched teeth, slowly circling the chair so he could limp his way to the door. “And the two of us will have words after this is dealt with, don’t think we won’t.”

“Right, I’ll look forward to it. Now shoo, shoo, enjoy coffee. And hey, why don’t you bring a large one for me while you’re at it!” He called after d’Andrésy’s retreating back. He cackled loudly when the door slammed shut behind him.

Silence fell once more. Nothing stirred in the vaulted room save for the lightbulb as it slowly swung back into place, and the shifting shadows it cast upon the bricks. Lupin was standing still and attentive with his chin raised towards the door, listening out for the rhythmic tapping of d’Andrésy’s cane until it grew faint, fainter, and finally, faded out of earshot. Then he put his hands on his hips and turned to Sorrel with a shrug and a wink:

“Can you believe this guy? He takes diplomacy classes in that fancy school of his, you’d think he would pick up some manners.”

He grabbed the chair d’Andrésy had abandoned and spun it around so he could sit astride, arms propped onto the backrest, grinning impishly at his captive.

Sorrel took long, gulping breaths. The interrogation could not have lasted longer than ten minutes, yet he felt as though he had been battered by a storm. He could feel drops of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose, stinging his eyes. The ropes around his wrists burnt and chafed his skin. He shifted in his seat to appease the painful tension in his back from his previous, desperate attempts to move away from d’Andrésy’s wrath. All the while he never quite let his new captor out of his sight.

He looked harmless enough, and yet – Sorrel spied with some trepidation the lazy bounce of his leg, the way he hummed tunelessly under his breath. It must be that d’Andrésy’s stifling presence had scraped his nerves raw and made him paranoid, but he couldn’t help feeling there was something off about this kid as well. Some keen, watchful glint to his eyes. A coiled tension under the idleness. After a while Lupin noticed his suspicious stare, but it did not seem to alarm him; rather one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile.

“Hey,” he chided, wagging a finger in front of Sorrel’s face, “don’t stare at me like I’m about to bite, it makes me look like the bad guy. You are the one who tattled and got yourself in this mess, you know.”

“I… I didn’t do anything wrong. You have to believe me. It’s like I’ve told him. Anne-Lise…”

“Yeah yeah, so you say,” Lupin cut him off with a shrug. “You don’t need to convince me, I am a neutral party here. You want a drink?”

Sorrel blinked at the non sequitur. Lupin gave him another conspiratorial wink and ran his hands down his jacket, as though searching for a wallet or phone. Then – and there was no telling how on earth he had kept it concealed for so long – he pulled a large thermos from behind his back. As he unscrewed the lid, steam rose in the air between them, along with the strong smell of coffee. Lupin threw his head back and cackled some more at Sorrel’s dumbfounded look.

“That will teach the jerk,” he said, delighted. “If he had asked nicely I would have shared. So, you want some? I won’t snitch if you don’t.”

Sorrel didn’t reply straight away, fear and disbelief still coursing through his veins. There was the possibility this was some roundabout trap. And even if it wasn’t, and this new recruit really was as he seemed, bored, rebellious, in need of company and woefully bad at reading the room, and his offer was genuine, even then d’Andrésy may notice the smell on them when he returned – and who knew how he would react to this new, ridiculous bout of defiance? Yet Lupin knocked back a cup and clicked his tongue like he didn’t have a single care in the world. When he turned back to Sorrel expectantly, the man gave a shaky nod before he could think better of it.

Lupin had to reach forward to hold the cup to his lips, balancing on the front two legs of his chair, so Sorrel could drink despite his bound hands. The awkward proximity made the young man chuckle. The coffee wasn’t any blend Sorrel knew; it was very rich, with a slightly nutty aftertaste. He drank it avidly.

“There, isn’t that better?” Lupin said, screwing the lid back up. “You were a sight. You shouldn’t let your boss freak you out so much, you know. Barking loud is part of his job, but he is pretty okay really.”

Sorrel had leaned back into his chair and was sighing deeply, but upon hearing the last sentence he opened his eyes and stared like the lad had gone insane.

His fingers still tingled from the phantom brush of the blade. Just half an inch to the side, and d’Andrésy would have sliced right through his phalanx.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you got on his bad side alright,” Lupin amended when he saw the doubt painted all over Sorrel’s expression. “Next time you lie to his face, at least put some effort into it. That whole excuse with Anne-Lise didn’t win you any creativity point.”

“What…what do you mean?”

“Anne-Lise,” Lupin enunciated slowly, like he was starting to think Sorrel might be dim-witted. “_She_ is the scapegoat, not you. Your boss got this recorded phone conversation of some shady guys threatening her and forcing her to hide abroad. Singling her out only made you look worse, why do you think that set him off like that? You are even mentioned by your alias in that call, he knows you’re in it. Your new bosses are pretty careless, I am not sure why you thought...”

Sorrel must have made some sort of noise, because Lupin interrupted his monologue to peer at his horrorstruck face. His eyes grew wider.

“Oh, right, I see, you didn’t know that bit about Anne-Lise yet. Oops. Er, try and act surprised when he brings it up?”

The sentence faded into white noise as Sorrel abruptly stared down the extent of the mess he was in.

_D’Andrésy knew._

The coffee that had soothed his nerves a minute ago churned in his gut; its aftertaste rested heavy and metallic on his tongue.

How on earth? D’Andrésy couldn’t have found the trail of his new employers so soon. They had planned all this so carefully. He had been promised he would be safe…

Then again, what had ever gone right in this accursed scheme? The trap that should have spelt the death of Albert d’Andrésy had turned into a bloodbath. There had been no report, all of their hired henchmen had been killed somehow, d’Andrésy’s body had never been found. They were left with a jumble of contradictory rumors: the Lupin heir, it was said, had struck back at his attackers with a bomb hidden in his clothes, in a desperate murder-suicide that had mangled his body beyond recognition. Some said instead that the local police had broken the truce and killed the henchmen themselves, and that d’Andrésy was being held prisoner somewhere, grievely injured. Others claimed the boy had remained buried under the wreckage, unfound, and had died slowly of asphyxiation and thirst. Some whispered that, for all they knew, he had never come to the trap at all, but had sent some underling as a decoy to die in his place.

In the first chaotic weeks that followed the murder attempt, d’Andrésy all but vanished from the face of the Earth, and there was nothing to fuel or quench the rumors. No clear evidence of his death could be found. The syndicate was moving swiftly from the shadows, striking back against the conspirators with frightful accuracy, yet there was no sign of the young man who pulled the strings. None of his known hiding places had been reopened. He might as well have been swallowed into the earth like some demon called back into Hell for all the trail he left.

At long last, there was hearsay that an underground doctor had been called to a remote corner of Normandy to tend to some rich client. The wounded man went by an alias, but it had transpired that he was young, abnormally so for someone clearly influential in the underworld. They said the injuries he bore were debilitating, some kind of compound ankle fracture and shredded tendons that would leave him permanently lame. They said that through the haze of delirium he spoke of nothing but revenge.

The cold cloud of rage that had hung about d’Andrésy like an electric storm passed through him and chilled him to the bone. Sorrel had gambled everything on the hope that if he held his ground just long enough, d’Andrésy would eventually check on Anne-Lise and take the bait. If only that vindication and bloodlust could be used against him. After all, for all his merciless training he was practically a teenager still. He must be in shock, weakened by a slow, painful recovery hidden away in some dark shelter. He would be suggestible, he would be hasty, he would make mistakes.

Yet he knew. How did he find out so soon, just how many spies had the accursed brat cast across France and beyond...

He was brought back to the present when Lupin sighed dramatically and slumped further into the backrest of the chair.

“This is why I hate those interrogation gigs. It always gets so tangled up. Look, why don’t you do us all a favor and spill the beans when he gets back? It will save you some stress, and it will save _me_ a good deal of time. You will get a slap on the wrist, so what? It’s not like he will mess you up badly or anything. Don’t be a baby about it.”

“Don’t be a…” Sorrel parroted in a strangled voice. “…all this, just now, did it look like a bluff to you?”

The gambler’s voice was rising in distress even as he spoke, but he managed to keep himself in check. Lupin was looking back at him with wide eyes. He wore the same open, oblivious expression as when he had stood up to Albert d’Andrésy and lived through the ordeal. Sorrel asked his next question more carefully.

“Lupin, right? He said you are new here. What… what do you think he’ll do to the mole, when he finds them?”

His captor shrugged. Paused. Mumbled some evasive replies.

It confirmed what Sorrel thought. This recruit was exactly as clueless as he seemed – led into error by d’Andrésy’s young age, no doubt. He thought of him as a peer. If anything the line of enquiry seemed to annoy him: it wasn’t his problem, he said at last dismissively, how the guy chose to discipline his staff. Lupin? He was more like a freelance associate himself, he went on in a brighter voice, waving his arm theatrically as he spoke. Or a rival. Rival was more like it. He did as he pleased. Anyhow, maybe the guy got a kick out of acting tough, but that didn’t mean he kept torture dungeons lying around; there was no need for Sorrel to be so dramatic. After all, his boss had made it out of the murder attempt just fine, hadn’t he? So it was all water under the bridge now, wasn’t it?

Sorrel was breathing hard as the boy rambled, a painful mixture of dismay and hope sitting in his guts.

“His leg though… he will never walk normally again, will he?”

Lupin winced at that, though he tried to wave the concern aside.

“Heeeh, that’s what those doctors said. But I’m pretty sure they’re being overdramatic on purpose. And they’re used to dealing with much older guys – he’ll get better soon.” His voice wavered for a second. “It _has _been a while since he got it busted, but…”

Lupin rubbed at the back of his neck, struggling to end the sentence. Sorrel latched onto that uncertainty like a drowning man to a buoy.

“He won’t get better,” he said urgently. “You have seen him. He will never heal, and he won’t rest until he has destroyed the culprits, and everyone who took advantage of him while he was hurt. I…I saw you out there. When he attacked me. You knew he was ready to slice through the bones in my hand, you knew… Listen, it’s not just me he will break. You are in danger. He won’t forgive you for defying him.”

Lupin was grinning again, eyebrows raised high; he seemed ready to laugh into his face for getting morbid. Sorrel pressed on before he could be interrupted.

“You must believe me. How long have you known him? I have been here for over fifteen years, long enough to have served his father. A mad line of criminals, the d’Andrésy, rotten through by their own pride. You said you come and go as you please as his – as his _rival_?”

It was Sorrel’s turn to throw his head back in a short bark of disbelieving laughter. Lupin straightened in his seat, his own grin wiped off his face, looking mildly affronted.

“Don’t you know anything about those people? About him? A rival… as if! He is not in this job to be _challenged. _He is too clever, and too cowardly to tolerate anything like an equal. He will crush anyone who could become a threat. He will crush _you_.”

He had to stop to catch his breath. His chest hurt with repressed laughter. He felt light-headed with fear. Lupin sat motionless before him, and did not fill the silence with that breezy chatter he seemed usually so fond of. For good or ill, Sorrel’s warning had struck a chord: the lad had hunched in on himself defensively, bristling and quite out of character. His lips were pinched into a thin line of distaste. He muttered to himself, hissing so low Sorrel could barely catch the words:

“That’s what you think, huh? Joke’s on you, maybe we will get along just fine, he and I.”

He sat silent and sulking for some time. In the ponderous silence they could both hear the low buzzing sound coming from the light bulb, and the faint whistle of a cold draft seeping into the room through some fault in the half-rotten bricks.

Lupin was still tapping his foot, but the tempo was slower, sullen.

Sorrel struggled reflexively in his seat. That was – progress, of a sort, to have planted some seeds of doubt in this naïve and reckless teenager. But now the antiquarian was becoming acutely aware of time passing. He missed his watch. How long still until d’Andrésy came back, and the true nightmare began? Surely he wouldn’t trust this new recruit to guard him much longer. It could only be the pain of his injury that had kept him away so long, and if so, the painkillers would take effect soon. Sorrel had to make a move now, press his advantage before he lost his one hope of escape. He chewed on the inside of his cheeks, anxiety clamping down on him like a vice. Lupin glanced sideways, saw his renewed fidgeting and scoffed.

“Getting bored? So am I, to be honest. I wish Albert would come back and wrap this up already. Oh, by the way, you slipped again,” he jeered, and drew mocking air quotes with his fingers. The movement was somewhat jerky in comparison to his smooth, expansive gestures from before. “_’A mad line of criminals, the d’Andrésy’_? So much for not knowing his name, you idiot.”

Sorrel winced, but things were well out of control already, and now his sole chance was…

“Please, are… are you going to tell him? He will kill me.”

“Heh. I might, and I might not. I told you, I am a neutral party here. I should just let the two of you settle that mess between yourselves.”

He had replied fast, seamless and almost exceedingly casual, but that alertness from before was back in his eyes and in the lines of his face. It came as no surprise when he leant forward and followed with:

“Now of course, if you are _that _spooked, and you want something from me, and you are ready to scratch my back in return? That’s a different story.”

“Anything. _Anything. _Please…”

“Woah there, someone’s desperate!” Lupin exclaimed, holding both palms up. “You could at least listen to what I have in mind first.”

He sprang from his seat in a flailing of limbs. Shook himself. His bright energy was returning to him.

“As I said, I am something of a rival to the current Lupin heir. Or did you think the name was just for show? Though your opinion of his sportsmanship is duly noted and thank you for your insight,” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, and there was something challenging and almost belligerent in the curl of his smile. Then he clapped his hands together and he was back to his chipper self. “We have an ongoing thieving contest, he and I. Best living embodiment of Arsène Lupin wins, and lo and behold, Lupin the Third is born.”

He paced purposefully across the room.

“Except, see,” he went on, “relying too much on his network would defeat the purpose. And it would give him way too many opportunities to screw me over besides. I need my own crew.”

There he stopped, spun back to face Sorrel, and brought his hands up to frame his captive with his fingers, closing one eye and sticking his tongue out like an eccentric artist assessing a slightly botched painting.

“You are a bit skittish,” he jeered. “We’ll work on that. But you’ll do for a start. Provided you have enough intel about Albert to be worth my time. I’ll take embarrassing stories from when he was a kid, too. Think you can do that much?”

Sorrel took in a deep breath. Threw the dice.

“I can give you better than that. I can help you rise above him. You want to be a true heir of Arsène Lupin? If you get me out of here, I will give you one of his heirlooms.”

Lupin tilted his head for him to go on. His face betrayed no stronger emotion than mild curiosity and that hint of derision from earlier, but there was a keener light in his eyes, something like hunger. Sorrel focused on that glint, begging to all the gods above that he could appeal to this young man’s greed, before time ran out.

“There is one notebook,” he said haltingly, “one volume of Arsène Lupin’s secret notes that Albert d’Andrésy doesn’t know about. Half-translated. His father had it on him when he died; I was a confident of his, I am the only one who knows it exists. The notebook speaks of a hiding place.” He finished in a lower voice. “And of a treasure, if one knows how to guess his riddles.”

Lupin gave a slow whistle.

“Now we are talking.”

The glint of greed was back in full force now. The teenager was trying very hard to not let his face split into a wild grin. He started pacing in front of Sorrel again, talking in a faux-careless tone:

“Treasure, huh? It figures it would all be about riches in the end. You say only you know the hiding place, but let me guess, you aren’t actually sure, are you? It could be mentioned in one of the notebooks that went to Albert. And then, who knows when he might make a move to grab it? And you didn’t dare fight him for it. So you had to get rid of the heir first, didn’t you, before you could get to the treasure safely. That’s what this mess is all about. Am I right so far?”

Sorrel clenched his hands on the armrest but stayed silent. Lupin threw his head back and laughed, a short, triumphant bark that was a shade lower in range from his usual giggling.

“Well, that sounds _fun. _Congratulations Sorrel, you won yourself a ticket to a treasure hunt! I hope you are prepared to stick with me.”

“Always, anything you ask. Thank you, thank you – only please, we must go _now_, he could be back any minute.”

“Heh. We’ll need to do something about all that groveling, too, it will get old fast,” Lupin said, though from the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he was secretly pleased with the show of deference. “Don’t you worry yourself silly about Albert, I’ll handle the guy. But you’re right, no use dallying. Ship and treasure and tide wait for no man! Come on, up you go!”

He traipsed over to Sorrel. For a second he feared that the teenager would struggle with the ropes, so tight and thick were the knots, but he worked at them with dexterous fingers – the bone structure of his hands was more delicate than the antiquarian had expected, somehow, free of callouses, no blemish save for a faint purple bruise on his forefinger like the mark of a pen. Before he knew it, the ropes had fallen to the ground, and Lupin was stepping back with a grand gesture of his hand.

“Stand up and walk, Lazarus!” He laughed.

Sorrel complied shakily. He was still stammering pleas to make haste, terrified anew by his guide’s careless attitude, but Lupin shut him up with a sign. His face had settled back into a sober, focused expression, as though for all his boasts he too was starting to feel some trepidation at defying the head of the syndicate on a whim.

He stepped lightly to the door, and gestured for Sorrel to follow with as little noise as he could. There, he stood half-crouched for some time, listening intently for the tell-tale sound of the cane that would mark d’Andrésy’s return. All was perfectly still.

Lupin straightened, the corners of his mouth lifting in relief. He turned the knob and swung the door open.

D’Andrésy was right there.

Lupin jumped like a startled animal. D’Andrésy’s lips were pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. There was a gun held tightly in his fist. For a second, they both hovered, frozen.

Then everything happened in a blur.

It was like all of Lupin’s breezy confidence had bled into fight or flight reflexes. Quick as an adder he threw himself at the gun, pushing it out of the way, and he collided shoulder-first with the other man. D’Andrésy’s bad leg buckled under his weight (had Lupin forgotten about the injury in his haste?); he crumbled like a house of cards; the gun clattered out of his grip. D’Andrésy twisted and reached for the weapon, murder on his face. The threat seemed to send Lupin into a blind frenzy, and – eyes blown wide, disheveled, his breathing short and ragged – he rushed and slammed his foot down onto his chest – “Shit-shit _fuck_, stay down!” –

– much harder than he meant.

There was a sickening crunch, the snap of broken ribs.

D’Andrésy let out a blood-churning scream.

Lupin stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet as he stared at the prone form of his would-be rival in disbelief and horror. His hand came up shakily to grip at his hair.

“God I… I didn’t…”

The gun was still on the ground, an arm’s breadth from where d’Andrésy laid curled in on himself. Lupin didn’t seem to see it. His eyes were strained to the heir, one hand half-outstretched as if he wanted to help, but was too afraid to touch him again. His other fist tightened in his hair. He took a shaky step forward as if to go kneel by his side. Stopped halfway.

Sorrel dived for the gun. 

Lupin’s head snapped up – “Hey, you, wait…” – but he was too late. Sorrel had taken hold of the weapon and was standing up shakily. He stared down at d’Andrésy, lying prone below him. And he looked… He didn’t look so threatening any longer. More like the runt his father had described that first time, over ten years ago, the start of a slow drip of hints the antiquarian had collected in silence, that had eventually convinced him the boy must be struck down.

It had started slowly: Albert d’Andrésy senior had been a methodical man of militaristic discipline; he avoided private matters. But on some evenings, he would make an exception to his ascetic habits, and then his tongue tended to loosen somewhere within his third drink. Then, he would confide in Sorrel in a low voice, baring hopes and concerns.

He had named his son after himself, he had muttered that one evening, because he meant to revive his bloodline. Start a new dynasty of underworld conquerors. But now he feared his offspring was not measuring up. At eight years old the young Albert was a far cry from the ideal, boisterous boy he had envisioned: he was bookish, withdrawn. An all-around unremarkable brat with hunched shoulders, who stared at adults mistrustfully and slunk away from conflict.

Dejected, the mob leader had left the kid in his uncle’s care: he was proving a decent understudy in the workshop, or so Gaston said.

The second time Sorrel heard of the younger d’Andrésy, four years on, his father’s view had taken a drastic turn. He had opened up to Sorrel one rainy night while stuck in traffic, like the words were bleeding out of him, jittery with a mixture of frustration and baffled pride. Albert d’Andrésy junior had started the training program intended for the heir, and the thing was, he was a natural, some kind of genius. Physical drills, boxing, martial arts, fencing, slights of hand, firearms, nothing challenged him for long. Intellectually he was peerless – he took up Latin and ancient Greek and rhetoric like they were games. He would be a fine strategist before long. Already he displayed an astute understanding of power structures in the underworld, and commented off-handedly on geopolitics. Better still, the boy he had dismissed as meek and spineless sparred with a cold ferocity that gave even his masters pause.

So there was the stuff of a man in this son of his, after all. D’Andrésy senior would have taken him back under his wing in a heartbeat, but by then Gaston insisted he was absolutely indispensable in the workshop. And Albert had shown no strong urge to return to his father’s side. In fact, when asked, the narrow-faced boy had offered the faintest shadow of a sneer, and said that, if it was all the same, he would work some more under his uncle’s guidance.

D’Andrésy had suffered from his son’s subtle scorn, doubtlessly, all the more because the brat gave him nothing to fight against. He was never outright rebellious: he dutifully completed any and all training required of him. In some things he even went above and beyond, taking over most of the syndicate’s accounting in his spare time. Yet all the while as he grew older, he found opportunities to distance himself further and further from his father, icy in his deference to him, his whole demeanor a rebuke for earlier neglect. The man had had no choice but to swallow his bruised pride, and eventually Sorrel had heard no more of the heir.

It was unclear when Albert d’Andrésy had risen to power after his father’s death, or how much influence he shared with Gaston, hidden as they both were behind multiple aliases. Yet the potential threat presented by this calculating, precocious child never quite left Sorrel’s mind.

There was also the matter of that notebook, and its promised riches. 

Now the boy’s head was bowed against the cold paved stones of the interrogation room. He was trembling and clutching at his broken ribs, harmless at last. Sorrel breathed in deep, and aimed his weapon between the two young men.

At last, Sorrel was _safe_.

“Sorrel. Drop that gun,” Lupin said, holding out one palm – he probably meant it as a command, but there was a strained edge to his voice that made it sound almost pleading. “There’s no need for this.”

Sorrel let out a chuckle, shaky but elated. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.

“Quite – quite the opposite,” he said. “I think the need is pretty dire, and for both of us. You do realize, Lupin, that the syndicate will hunt you down like a beast for what you have done. We have to strike first. Cut off the head.”

Lupin tried to laugh. His voice was white.

“Whoa! You jump to extremes fast. L-listen, you need me to get out of here. So, we do things my way. Drop the gun.”

“I think, you naïve, dim-witted boy,” Sorrel cut in, “that you don’t quite understand who holds the cards here. We are both wanted for mutiny. We both walk out or we both sink together. That is, unless I shoot you first. So I suggest you stay put while I deal with our common little problem.”

D’Andrésy twitched, but he seemed to be in shock, unable to tell where the voices were coming from, nor what they meant. He didn’t lift his head, and remained curled around his bad leg, his back turned to the both of them, wheezing as he breathed. Sorrel lowered the gun to aim between his shoulder blades.

Lupin took a step towards him.

“I said _wait_…”

The gun fired.

And a second, and a third time.

With each shot d’Andrésy’s body twitched like a disarticulated puppet, and then laid still.

Sorrel turned to Lupin, who was staring back at him, shell-shocked.

“There,” he said amiably, leveling the gun towards the boy’s chest. “Doesn’t that simplify things? Now, if you will be kind enough to show me the way out…”

Lupin blinked at the barrel of the gun.

And then, he shrugged at it.

“I would say it does,” he agreed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You know, I didn’t peg you as the trigger-happy type. Three bullets on an unmoving target, and at this distance, really, come on, how bad of a shot are you? Are you sure you don’t want to fire a couple more rounds just to be on the safe side?”

He tilted his head towards d’Andrésy’s body with a huff.

“Look at him, I am pretty sure he’s got life in him still. Go on ahead, fill him with a bit more lead while you are on a roll. You can’t be too careful.”

Sorrel had no time to wonder at the boy’s sudden poise, or the way his voice was sliding into a lower drawl, something more Parisian in the rhythm of his words, something horribly familiar. Because, then, a voice rose from the corpse behind him, and made all the hair stand on the back of his neck.

“Hey now, you jerk,” it said. “You are cheating.”

Lupin casually flipped off the corpse and went on without missing a beat:

“Shut up and stay dead, thank you. I am just saying that two shots would have been plenty. It gets the job done, and it leaves enough rounds to defend yourself later while you escape. Three? That’s overkill and poor planning.”

“Three is a classic,” the corpse countered. “I knew he would go for three. It’s got more impact: it’s like the end of an act in theatre.”

There, while the rest of him remained limp and lifeless, the prone body raised its hand and struck three blows against the floor with its palm.

“Anyone could have guessed as much. You are a sore loser is all,” it concluded.

“And you are very talkative for a guy riddled with bullets,” the man said, exasperation giving way to a fond chuckle. “Look, you are making Sorrel nervous. Have a heart.”

The corpse’s shoulders shook. He twitched once, twice, and then he rolled over onto his back and burst out laughing. Each shudder of his chest made his broken ribs grind against one another under his coat with a sickening series of crunches and snaps. Sorrel staggered backwards and dropped the gun, staring with wild eyes at the broken man on the floor with d’Andrésy’s face, and at the naïve man before him with d’Andrésy’s voice. Nothing made sense. The one upright nodded at his empty hand:

“A wise decision, Sorrel, you should have done that from the start. You wouldn’t have gone far with it anyway, it’s full of blanks. This one, however,” he went on, pulling a small handgun from a pocket of his sports jacket, “should work just fine.” He pointed the weapon at Sorrel, and his smile grew wider. “Care to test it?”

It felt like the ground had been pulled out from under Sorrel’s feet, and the nightmare wouldn’t end. Before he could so much as stare down the barrel, a torturous, drawn-out noise of breaking and splintering bones made him flinch in revulsion and turn back, spellbound, to the maimed teenager on the floor. He saw him curl up and jump to his feet, lithe as a cat; suddenly his bad leg bore his weight with ease. He seemed equally unconcerned by the constant cracking and grinding of his ribs.

He winked at Sorrel, and then he dug his fingers into his own face, ripping the skin right off from under his eye sockets, pulling it over his head along with his mane of blonde hair.

When he lifted his face again, a carbon copy of the new recruit named Lupin was looking back at him with mirth in his eyes.

He threw his coat open with a flourish and revealed the protective vest he wore underneath. Chicken bones of various sizes had been sown into the layers of padding; they were broken down the middle, from when his partner had stomped onto his chest; their splintered ends rubbed against one another sinisterly every time he moved.

He picked up the cane with the tip of his shoe, spun it between his fingers and threw it in the air like a magician in a circus, laughing uproariously all the while.

The one with the gun cleared his throat. He might as well have fired a shot for how high Sorrel jumped.

“Pay attention, Sorrel,” he chided, and gestured at the chair the antiquarian had just left; the ropes were still hanging from the armrests. “I can see your gears turning, do have a seat, I don’t want you to feel faint. Think you have figured out who I am now? If this one over there is really Lupin, then for the sake of symmetry I ought to be…”

He paused, and tapped at his own cheekbone with one finger in consideration. And God, it looked for all the world like a face, it had all the grain and small imperfections and microscopic hair of real human skin, except, they said the things they manufactured in that workshop bordered on the supernatural…

The man laughed at Sorrel’s fearful expression, and he shifted his voice to that of a stranger, higher but rough and crackling, like it was being coughed out of an old transistor.

“Honestly, don’t bust a nerve trying to make sense of things: you just don’t know as much as you think you do. He’s Lupin so I must be d’Andrésy. Is that it? And who’s to say there’s only one Lupin? For all you know there could be a dozen of us buddying up in that workshop. And if we have heirs to spare, who’s to say Albert d’Andrésy hasn’t died years ago, heh, and you’ve spent all that time and effort plotting to murder a ghost? I am sorry to break it to you, but you are a bit of a cretin, Sorrel.”

“Wow, someone’s mad,” the other man said serenely. They were both advancing on him, the one with the cane and the one with the gun, herding him back to the chair. Sorrel fell into it with the finality of a trap door falling shut. “Did he say something to you?”

The one with the gun shrugged.

“He said plenty. He ate up that bluff about Anne-Lise hook, line and sinker, for one thing. That recorded phone call didn’t exist, Sorrel, we had no concrete proof of her innocence, so thank you for confirming things for us. There is also the matter of a missing notebook that rightfully belongs to the syndicate. But that’s not what’s bothering me. You _did _speak a little out of turn, didn’t you? What was it, something about a naïve, dim-witted boy? I am not sure I like you insulting my friend’s intelligence to his face like that.” 

The one with the cane laughed, surprised and delighted, and gave his partner a playful elbow-shove.

“Ooooh, are my ears ringing, or is that you calling me clever?”

The first didn’t respond, but he let their shoulders brush together companionably as they closed in on their prey, wearing the same face and the same curled smile, like two monstrous twins.

“So,” one of them said, “how about we continue our chat?” 

* * *

A month earlier and one country away, two young thieves pushed open a door to stroll into an office room. The light was dim; the shutters had been pulled shut to fend off the scorching Mediterranean sun. The fan in a corner made a gentle warbling sound. The plants by the window were well watered: the whole place looked sleepy and peaceful.

Not that you couldn’t see the signs that the building was crawling with mafia. The cleaning guy in the corridor, for instance, was shaped like a bull and was doing very little cleaning and a lot of door guarding. Yet he did let them in without a fuss. The man sitting at the desk was tense but did not look surprised to see them. It seemed the old woman from the tacky souvenir shop, this morning, had announced them in as promised.

First in was Lupin. He had traded his usual jeans and jacket for bright blue shorts and a flower patterned shirt in acid yellows and greens – he was the color synchronization equivalent of biting on an ice cube. He made straight for the desk like he owned the whole building.

The man that followed was meticulously forgettable: a little stooped, slightly rumpled clothes, hair neither long nor short, and wearing the vacant expression of a tired tourist. Albert stayed close to the door, fiddling with the strap of his satchel as though his persona didn’t quite know what to do with himself. When Lupin started gesticulating in front of the man at the desk, Albert gave the barest nod in greeting and leant against the wall. It took some weight off his injured leg, not that it had given him much trouble lately: he had had time to rest and the sprain was healing over well. There, unobtrusive, he looked on at Damone, this supposed black market seller Lupin used to do business with.

Lupin had stopped gesturing at himself and flapping his hands long enough for his host to speak. Damone pushed a bang of hair from his forehead – the hair was greying, maybe fifty, Albert estimated, or forty-five and stressed. The wiry, thick curled hair made him look a bit scruffy in spite of his well-fitted suit. Working his way to overweight; sedentary. Married, too: there was a plain ring glinting in the dim light on his finger. No picture of kids on the desk though – Damone pushed his hair from his forehead, and looked up at Lupin in bemusement.

“Mercy, it _is _you. You have barely changed at all.”

Lupin crossed his arms at the remark, features falling in a petulant scowl.

“Hey now, I have changed plenty. I’m much taller for one.”

“Right,” Damone conceded. He pulled out a match from a box by his side, twirled it reflexively between his fingers, and scratched at his hair with the safe end. He didn’t seem to know whether he should smile. “How many years has it been? They said you had died, you know.”

“They say that a lot. You can see I’m here, and as splendid as ever!”

“Right,” he repeated. “Is it still Cliffhanger, then?”

Lupin sighed long-sufferingly.

“Of course it isn’t, that was _ages _ago. But it will have to do for today. For old time’s sake and because it’s you, you ugly old crook.”

Damone made a mostly-agreeable sound, and sat back as though to take it all in. He was twirling the match again. It was an odd tick, especially since he didn’t look like a smoker: there was no ashtray on the desk, no smell of smoke hanging in the air, and the way he held the match was a little off. Albert had a sinking feeling he was one of those people who stuffed matches in their ears to scrap off wax.

Then, their eyes almost met – but by the time Damone had lifted his eyes to his, Albert’s persona was staring morosely at the shutters.

“And who is this?”

“Oh, that one,” Lupin said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just someone I met abroad who felt like sightseeing. Don’t mind if he doesn’t join in, he doesn’t speak a word of Italian.”

Albert refrained from rolling his eyes. Then, Lupin turned back to wave and _wink _at him, and really, so much for going through the trouble of putting together a disguise that wouldn’t draw attention to himself…

“I could tell you aaallllll about him of course,” Lupin went on, “but too bad I don’t kiss and tell!”

Thankfully for everyone’s dignity, Damone chose to ignore the last comment, and they could finally move on to talking business. It did sound like they had done this several times already: a much younger Lupin barging in unannounced with his pockets stuffed full of jewels. Or however he used to behave, back then.

Albert wasn’t sure what to make of Damone yet: there was something cautious about his whole demeanor, like he wanted to chuckle at Lupin’s antics, but also strongly suspected that the thief was playing him. Like he was pleasantly surprised to see him alive, but wished for the sake of his business and his own tranquility that he would go die again somewhere out of sight, at least for a few months or years.

It had been the same with that tacky shopkeeper, Agnella, or so Lupin had called her. The old woman had let them into her back shop with a good amount of grumbling, cursing about how children these days were out to rip society apart with their foul crimes right out of the cradle. She had nevertheless agreed to put them in touch with a fence. Lupin had come in for a hug, but she had stepped back and thrown an apple at his head, “that’s at least one you won’t get to steal”.

“Devious”, the thief had nodded sagely, and chomped down on the acid-looking fruit, finishing it in three quick bites, core and all.

All the while he kept stealing glances at Albert with a twinkle in his eyes, like he was silently boasting “Look at all the friends I have”, or maybe just taunting him, “Having fun with your investigation? What do you make of this one?”

He was toying with his own secrets, Albert knew. He was feeding his rival fresh tidbits of information right when he was starting to doubt whether Lupin had actually spent any amount of time in Italy at all.

Sure, he spoke the language like a local, fast-paced, full of short-hands, colloquialisms and casual slang Albert couldn’t follow. And he had guided him through countless towns and villages as though he knew them from childhood. But that was exactly the problem, he was overdoing it: he could point out good cafés, quirky shops and bits of local history in every town, and he had a personal anecdote for every street corner. There were not enough hours in one lifetime to fit it all in, so most if not all of those stories had to be made up. In fact, Albert was pretty sure he had seen him study maps of their next stop ahead of time on his phone. Either he was making sure that the old places he wanted to come back to were still around, or more likely, he was drinking in enough information to completely fabricate his familiarity with each new town.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, after a few days in Italy he had started speaking about Japan in a voice thick with nostalgic fondness. They should definitely roadtrip _there _next time they had to lay low after a murder attempt, he had said. Autumn would be best. There was nothing quite like the mountains of the motherland in the fall.

He had actually said _motherland_, the old-fashioned fool, and he had been staring right into Albert’s eyes as he said it. He was so full of crap he could clog up an entire sewer.

And all those self-proclaimed home countries had started cropping up after Albert had started suspecting that Lupin might have grown up orphaned and homeless. It just made sense he would try to distract him with fake backstories. But now, whenever Albert was close to calling him out on his tricks, Lupin turned around and produced someone from his past who seemed to have known him his entire life, as though he _really_ used to be a preteen Italian mafia boss. Albert’s theories were almost back to ground zero. It was getting ridiculous.

At the desk, Lupin had gone through the lengthy process of narrating their heist. He strode over to Albert to grab their loot from the satchel. Albert’s persona let him ruffle through his bag limply, muttering a few protests in English. Soon their prizes were displayed over the surface of the desk. Three Canaletto cityscape drawings, safely wrapped, roughly one hundred thousand a piece – except, Albert suspected one of them of being a Bellotto and worth half as much; there was something a bit heavier in the lines – two Guardi, anywhere from twenty to sixty thousand, and five Bison inks, closer to a thousand a piece. They had found the art in a private villa, after noticing that a Bison displayed at a local museum had been replaced by a fake. Once they had traced the swap back to their target, it had been a straightforward heist. And to sweeten the deal, there was little risk of retaliation from their unscrupulous art collector: he was unlikely to let the police sniff too close to his own affairs. The fakes he had left in the museums were not good enough to withstand a close investigation.

Lupin would have nabbed some jewelry and designer watches from that villa as well, just for the fun of slipping shiny things in his pockets, but Albert had convinced him against it. _That _would get the police sent after them in a heartbeat. Their mark wouldn’t even need to mention the art theft to strike back.

It said something about the mellow mood Lupin was in, he supposed, that he had relented with little argument. Maybe the sun did that to him. Or more likely the sex. 

Damone took his time examining each of the drawings, even as he nodded good-naturedly at Lupin’s constant chatter. Finally, he pulled a small leather case from a locked drawer.

“The art theft is new,” he commented conversationally. “This is a good find.”

There was something a little rueful in Lupin’s smile as he shrugged off the praise.

“Heh, maybe I am picking up style.”

That was rich coming from someone who was dressed like the wrong end of a neon paint party. Lupin received the case and rifled through some of the note stacks, quickly counting that they had the correct sum. He turned to Albert again with a huge grin on his face, and traipsed over to pull him into an excited one-armed hug and wave the money in front of his face.

“Look at all that, you grouchy pal o’ mine,” he bragged in English, “not so bad for a holiday side-job, huh?”

Albert muttered some more and grabbed his arm to wrench it off his shoulders. As he did so, he tapped his partner’s wrist twice with his finger, their signal for “all clear, money looks genuine”. Lupin blew him a kiss and pulled the case shut.

“Well it was grand doing business with you after all this time, you ugly goat,” he said brightly to Damone, “and if I ever have to see you again it will be too soon. Now, I won’t keep you any longer. I am sure you are busy and I have a dinner date.”

He was being even more immature than usual, Albert mused. Like he had really been a child or a young teen the last time he had stood in this room, and old mannerisms were coming back to him. Or maybe he was doing it deliberately to make himself look younger, and make his old acquaintances feel bad about double-crossing him. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about using his apparent naivety to get the upper hand.

Looking back, this was probably when Albert had started thinking up the scheme that would trap Romain Sorrel. As Lupin tugged him by the arm to lead him out the room and back into the sun (he was really milking every chance he got of manhandling him; in hindsight, Albert should have settled on a less passive persona for the day), and as he talked excitedly about their dinner plans, Albert thought, wouldn’t it be nice to hold all the cards for a change, and watch someone else fall for Lupin’s peculiar brand of misdirection and bluffs?

* * *

One month on and back in Paris, two thieves walked into a dining room, victorious laughter still bubbling in their throats. They were in a boarded up restaurant, whose old wine cellars were used for everything from storing stolen goods to makeshift interrogation rooms. The place had escaped demolition through a suspicious string of administrative errors. It had been a pretty central and reliable hideout over the years. Another upside was that they had full use of the old bar and dining area, which still had a working coffee machine and some comfortable furniture.

Albert walked around worn tables and chairs in the half-light with the assurance of old habit, and made straight for the lunge to throw himself across a leather sofa he liked. He stretched with a yawn, then rubbed at his jaw and at the arc of his eyebrows to work some feeling back into the muscles: he was still sore from imitating someone else’s mannerisms for so long. Damn Lupin for being so expressive. He felt like he was one wink away from developing a permanent facial tick. 

Lupin, for his part, was still too excited to sit down: he traipsed around the room with that tuneless humming he did. He also kept swishing Albert’s long coat to make it flap around him like a cape. His giggling turned into a wince when he started undoing his padded vest.

“Eeeck, you really went for it with that kick, you bastard,” he said, prodding at his own stomach. “I bet I’m going to bruise.”

“It was your idea to add the chicken bones,” Albert reminded him. “I had to make sure I snapped them on my first try. Besides, did you see his face every time they did that grinding sound? Absolutely worth it.”

“Oh, you think so? Maybe _you _should get a kick to the gut next time, see how you like it.” Lupin said, sticking his tongue out at him.

He leant against the bar counter and started rifling through every pocket and double-lining in his borrowed coat and black trousers. Not that he would find anything: Albert had been careful to remove all his possessions before he lent him the outfit. On his side, however, a quick investigation of Lupin’s jeans and many-pocketed jacket had given him a Swiss army knife, a watch, a lighter – respectively bearing the initials AG, RS and JMP – five keys without keyrings, a tiny pencil, receipts and loose change in three different currencies, several condoms, broken bits of biscuits covered in fabric fluff, and some square little mint chocolates, the type they gave alongside coffee at restaurants.

He pulled out the chocolates, and sure enough, the wrapping wore the name of some small Italian place they had stopped in – Albert remembered the one. It begged the question of when those clothes had last seen the inside of a washing machine. The jeans did feel a little stiff. Albert crinkled his nose, but went back to examining his findings undaunted. He selected the least squashed mint chocolate for himself, and tossed another at Lupin.

“There won’t be a next time,” he said confidently. “Not from this guy anyway.”

“You sure about that? We didn’t even put a scratch on him in the end. You okay with letting him off easy after he tried to kill you?”

Albert smiled up at the ceiling and bit down on the sweet. The taste did go along well with the Italian coffee he had had earlier.

“He is more useful to me alive,” he said. “We got him panicked, he will sing like a canary from now on. I can use him to trap the rest of the traffickers, and then have him jailed and out of my sight. And if he tries to tattle again? Then our enemies will learn that Albert d’Andrésy doesn’t actually exist, and that the syndicate is sending dozens of identical Lupin heirs to wander around all of Europe. I am sure that will do them a whole lot of good.” He crossed his arms behind his head and gave a long sigh. “Today is a good day.”

Lupin chuckled and lifted his own chocolate in salute.

“Best revenge is living well, huh? I like that.”

Albert wouldn’t say that was the credo he usually lived by, but it _was _a pretty good feeling for a change. He felt well-rested, victorious, and he was walking away with clean hands. Not that he was above escalating an interrogation to actual violence (he wouldn’t be convincing at it if he wasn’t able to follow through), but he liked to stick to threats as much as possible. Otherwise, the sounds and textures came back to haunt him afterwards, and he had a harder time falling asleep for a few weeks. He had enough bad memories from these traffickers as it was.

Lupin was munching on his chocolate thoughtfully.

“It sucks that the information leak came from your old man in the end, though,” he mused. “But Gaston told me the two of you were never that close, right? And that it was Gaston who pretty much raised you. Good for you, really.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Gaston talks too much.”

Gaston also had a tendency to take credit for whatever he damn pleased, he didn’t add. But what else could you expect from a forger. It was a little galling to imagine him spinning Lupin a romanticized tale of how he had given Albert shelter from his father’s dangerous expectations, and that he had been the first to spot his potential, and nurture his skills, or some other nonsense.

Albert had spotted his own potential well enough on his own, thank you very much.

He didn’t remember a time when he wasn’t aware he had been wronged by his elders. The adults around him played some odd elaborate game with guns, code names and briefcases full of cash, and if they messed it up, _Albert _would end up arrested and killed, too. The best he could do was stay sharp, learn fast, team up with the least delusional of the bunch, and work his ass off to keep the entire structure from collapsing around him.

In official documents, Gaston and his father described themselves as craftsman and entrepreneur, which Albert found hysterical. Back at his cram school for the political science institute, he had indulged in a bit of stress relief by building a cover story for them: his two guardians, he said, were actually unemployed and living off the family fortune, which they happily squandered away in pet projects, doomed business ventures and a failed painting career. Albert spent most of his free time doing their accounting so they didn’t go completely bankrupt before he even landed a job. It also gave him a nice excuse for why he sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time: he would say he had been dragged into some business travel yet again.

One classmate had wondered about it one day: didn’t his uncle feel bad taking up so much of his time when Albert was preparing for the most prestigious school in France? There had been disbelief and a hint of indignation in his voice: every other trimester, members of their cohort burnt out from the workload and dropped like flies. Albert had chuckled aloud, flattered like he always was when his problems were put into perspective by normal people, “They think _they _are my real job, and getting into Science Po is just a hobby.” 

So, no, it didn’t come as much of a shock that the leak had come from his father in the end. With his tall talks of world conquerors and his outdated, blinkered views of criminal chiefdoms, Albert had never trusted the man to clean up his own trail. As a kid he used to have nightmares of when, inevitably, the man’s delusions of grandeur would doom them all.

To think that now, all those loose ends were dealt with at last – it was unhoped for.

When at fifteen, the police had come for him in class, he had followed numbly even as the pit of his stomach felt like it was turning into lead. That was it, he had thought then, game was up. Maybe, surely, he could pass himself as the victim, say they’d forced him to help, and he’d get police protection from the syndicate’s enemies… but, he didn’t trust them either, he had seen enough crooked cops already, no, if he wanted to keep himself safe he needed his freedom and all the cards in his hands… but now, now, oh God, now he was going to…

When one of the policemen in the car started talking to him in a gentle voice of an accident, brake failure, side collisions, that death had been instant and probably painless, it had taken a long time for the meaning of the words to filter through.

He had agreed to help identify the body at the morgue. They had given him details of the accident when he asked: a car incoming from the left had broken down and crashed into the driver’s door at full speed. Albert d’Andrésy senior had been the only casualty. The accidental killer had no previous police record.

Albert had always expected that the man’s end would be some grisly affair at the hands of the mafia, something that would make the news, something that would be hell to cover up. But this had been plain dumb bad luck, no blame to be lain on anyone. His father hadn’t even been speeding.

He had gone through the motions of the funeral, stood at a religious service in somber clothes, heard poorly pronounced latin and familiar hymns wash over his head, shaken hands and received condolences. He had read a carefully curated speech to a sparse audience.

Then, he had found some excuse to slip away, made for the first door that would lock, and he had fallen back on his butt and wailed with hysterical laughter for a solid half hour, drunk with relief.

“You look happy,” Lupin commented, pulling him back from memory lane. He had walked over behind him and leant against the backrest of the sofa to peer into his face from above. “That’s a weird look on you.”

Albert cracked one eye open to smirk at him.

“You are lucky I am. Otherwise I would be complaining about your acting.”

Lupin snorted.

“My acting was perfect. You’re the one who almost slipped. I heard your voice sliding back there.”

That almost soured his mood. The memory of Sorrel’s monologue reared its head, how being called a backstabbing coward had briefly rattled him and thrown him off his act, but Albert pushed it all back under. No matter: Lupin probably hadn’t made out actual words from outside the door anyway. He must have just noticed something off in Albert’s fake laugh and in the ring of his voice, otherwise he would have teased him to death by now. And there was no reason to think back to random insults from an underling he had thoroughly defeated.

“My part was a lot longer than yours,” he argued. “_You _still managed to mix up whole sentences. What was that nonsense about Anne-Lise and young widows and chivalry? We didn’t script that. It’s a retarded line.”

“Like that matters?” Lupin challenged, leaning further into his space. His grin was getting wider the closer he got. “We didn’t script for you to gush about how amazingly smart I am, either, but do you hear me complaining? _I _want a bigger role next time. Did you say my part about the thieving contest and Lupin the Third?”

Albert shrugged: “Yes, but I don’t think he was listening.”

“Sheesh, rude. I am planning to take you up on it, by the way.”

Albert furrowed his brows in confusion, though his lazy grin didn’t fade.

“The thieving contest?”

“Yeah, I like the name now. I might as well steal it from you properly.” He reached out to tap Albert on the forehead. “Watch out.”

Albert swatted his hand away, but kept his fingers trapped in his. _How would a thieving contest even work_, he didn’t ask. _Who yields the most benefits? You do so much collateral damage on your jobs you barely cover your own expenses, and that’s when you actually keep the damn treasure. You’d be so dead._

_I can take you._

“Does that mean that if you fail,” Albert drawled, “you’ll have to go by Cliffhanger again?”

Albert grinned hugely at Lupin’s exasperated scowl. It served him right for acting all self-confident and tossing bits of secrets about like loose puzzle pieces: one day Albert would have him all mapped out, and _then _he’d be sorry.

He could have rubbed it in further, but instead he grabbed Lupin’s face with both hands and pulled him in for a kiss. The way his hands scrambled for purchase on the backrest in shock was very satisfying.

The kiss itself was satisfying, too. That had been an odd discovery. When Lupin had invited him on his little road trip across Italy, it had soon transpired that he wasn’t terribly interested in heists or in laying low post-murder attempt. Instead he intended to spend the holiday investigating whether, how soon, and how often he could get into Albert’s pants. Albert… had rules against dating criminals. Or having casual sex with guys whose past he didn’t know. It was all just asking for trouble, and heavens knew he had inherited enough of that from his family as it was.

He didn’t have formal rules against painfully straight guys with a sex addiction problem who suddenly got curious about the other side of the fence, but that was because he had assumed he had standards.

So at first Albert hadn’t thought he would let things go far. Lupin, to his credit, had taken his newfound interest for men in stride and hadn’t made too many weird comments, but he remained unbearably obnoxious. His notion of flirting was stuck between candlelit dinners and groping his conquest in public; his desperation should have been a definite turn off. Yet after dark, when the door closed and the curtains were pulled, more often than not, all that craze tipped and looped all the way back on itself, and the man before him became strangely selfless and serene.

He wasn’t half-bad of a lover, then. 

And it hadn’t been half-bad of a holiday, either. They had sought out Renaissance paintings and clockwork automatons in museums, visited vineyards, lazed on the beach. Albert had dozed off on the sand in broad daylight, surrounded with strangers, while Lupin fussed with a parasol and blatantly checked out his butt, sound and dreamless like he hadn’t slept in years. 

And all the while, he carried with him the deeply satisfying knowledge that his enemies were biting their nails bloody wondering when he would strike next.

Lupin probably hadn’t realized how brilliant of a plan it had been to spirit him away. Out there on those small Italian backroads, they were untraceable: none of the places they stopped at were among the syndicate’s hideouts and could be predicted by moles. They never stayed in the same town more than a few days, and, as he and Lupin tended to bicker over their next destination until the very last minute, it was impossible to tell where they would head next.

It was the perfect disappearing act. And it had fallen onto his lap all by itself, right when Albert needed it the most.

It was ironic: he had worked so hard and worried so much, all these years, to keep himself alive and out of jail. He had played out scenario after scenario in his head to try and predict how and when the syndicate would be undone by the carelessness of his elders. He had taken the Lupin the Second organization as his own and maneuvered to place people he could trust in key places. He had done everything and more to stop this nightmare from becoming real, but the murder attempt had come all the same. The whole structure had collapsed around him just as he feared and had buried him alive.

And he had gotten out against all odds, all because he had run out of options and placed his fate in the hands of this hyperactive near-stranger.

And the twist was? He wasn’t sorry. It had been a lifelong mess. It was only right he got lucky for once.

So maybe he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

Maybe he deserved a break from his ground rules.

So there he was, lying across a dilapidated sofa in questionable jeans, holding this questionable man in his hands and running fingers through the short bristle of his hair, kissing him deep and slow.

– And speaking of slow: Lupin’s hands had shifted on the backrest and were pressing down, like he was about to jump over to straddle him and get busy. Albert didn’t feel like getting pinned down, so he broke the kiss and hopped to his feet, stretching his spine.

“I want some air,” he declared. He started pacing, like the buzzing energy he had feigned while impersonating Lupin had seeped deep into his skin. He felt wide awake, restless, burning. “And a drink. And some live music. Give me back my clothes, we are going out. You never did follow up on that survival party you promised.”

Lupin laughed. He reminded Albert it was he who had been a bore and refused to get drunk while they were in hiding, but he was also looking at him with wonder in his eyes. When Albert made for the door, he leaped over the sofa to catch up and laced his fingers with his. And, falling into step with each other, they marched out to claim the night. 


End file.
